Voldemort: Prince of Thieves
by heartdamoose
Summary: Ah yes, summer vacation. The one time of the year when Voldemort can let loose and call upon his creative nature to concoct the most memorable annual adventures anyone can muster. Only sometimes summer doesn't necessarily go as planned. one-shot


So umm...this is for a fanfiction contest on a site that I'm a member of, The Third Floor Corridor.

It's pretty fantastic, so if you wanna join, click on the link on my profile and knock yourself out. Moose referred you.

Anywho, the challenge was to write a fanfic about either an Order member or Death Eater on their summer vacation. And you can't chose Harry, Severus, or the Malfoys.

So that left me with Voldemort.

And I know, I know, you're probably thinking 'Well gosh Moose, that's not very original at all' and to that I reply 'well of course but you seem to have blown past the point that this is not just Voldemort—this is Moose's Voldemort'.

Also, I'm giving myself one hour to write this. Wish me luck.

disclaimer: All original characters go to JKR with Gary Larson and Who's Line influences. Plotline to me. Once I think of it.

hmmm. Well I still have nothing. Guess I'll just type and we'll see what happens.

* * *

Voldemort: Prince of Thieves

* * *

Lord Voldemort lived reclusively in his midtown apartment with his dog, Sherry, whom he secretly loathed.

And to say he had much of a social life beyond the evil acts of doom and destruction was a complete lie. In fact, when he wasn't storming around destroying the world, he was sitting in his not-so-humble abode, twitching, thinking evil thoughts, and slowly becoming a slave to the waffle light that omnipotently notified him when his world famous Belgian waffles were cooked to a light and fluffy golden-brown.

He loved waffles. He hated the fact that he had absolutely nothing to do but _eat _waffles.

However, there was one thing that Voldemort looked forward to more than twitching, or loathing, or watching waffles cook. Lord Voldemort looked forward to summer—the season of fun and frolic.

It was the one season that he left his Death Eaters off to do what they want so he could live free for two months. It was a blast every time, for his summers were unlike any other. No, Voldemort had no temptation to tan on the English beach, or relax in his apartment. He was one for adventure, and every summer, adventure was what he got.

Voldemort's unique strategy was this: every year he drew from an old pirate hat a slip of paper. These pieces of paper contained sensational vacation ideas that he thought up of one day in his old college dorm room while his roommate, Alfredo, left for his interpretive dance class and then for his date with Manuel Fabricante, a famous Mexican rapper.

These slips of paper consisted of every vacation idea ever. There was everything from civil war reenactments in Virginia, to creating a time machine that would make him become a blacksmith so he could attend the first American Thanksgiving, and be generally credited for being the first person to stick olives on all his fingers.

The last one was absurd, but he loved it anyways.

Last year, it was adventuring through the hazardous rain forests of southern Bolivia and discovering three different species of venomous spiders.

He laughed at the memory of it. He never really succeeded, but the adventure was enjoyable all the same.

Now, as he stared at the hat in front of him, he was reminded that his next vacation now fell into the fate of his right hand. Slowly, he reached into the hat's concave and pulled out a single piece of paper. When he looked at it, it stared back at him mockingly, urging him to unfold it and look upon his summer-fate.

It sent ripples of excitement through his stomach.

And here. we. go.

_Kill Harry Potter. _

No, no no, he thought shaking his head and throwing the piece of paper to the ground. That one didn't count, it was a warmup draw. And besides, he had added that one just a couple years ago out of anger—not fun. Summer needed to be _fun_.

He pulled another paper out, opening it quickly this time.

_Become a recently out-of-the-closet Robin Hood, a native to downtown New York City, and promptly steal from the rich, and give to the urban shrubberies. _

His brows rose, quite impressed with his previous college-era creativity. This was new.

And it was awesome.

Voldemort stood up excitedly, ran to the closet, and heaved out a gigantic suitcase. Already, the plan for the summer's trip was reeling through his head. He would fly to NYC on a muggle flying aircraft so as to embrace the full impact of the New York experience.

Then, he would enter the city, dawning green tights with a feathered hat and all and gallantly venture through the streets of the city, stealing from the rich and hording their money within the secretive interior of the average New York bush.

And of course, flirting with the boys as he did so. This would be strange to him, but oddly enlightening.

It was absolute genius.

Throwing himself off the sofa he had sat on, he ran towards his room, leaving excitement, waffle lights, and his ugly dog Sherry in his wake.

OOO

The airplane ride he could have done without. He thought the muggle air transportation device would show him the lifestyle of muggles while he indulged himself with comfortable seating and a TV dinner.

He felt like his soul had been stolen, while his body had been crammed and starved by bad service and the merciless exterior of a rough nylon chair. Cold and shaken as he excited the plane, he promised to himself that riding this so called airplane would be the inspiration for his next modern torturing device.

The security guards were as kind as a very mean cactus, and they stamped his fake passport cruelly. It was motivating.

After being yelled at twice, sniffed by three guard dogs, and accidentally tackled by a recently retired rugby player named Rodrigo, Voldemort walked into the men's bathroom, suitcase in hand, to change into his summer outfit.

To say the least, Voldemort made an immensely sexy Robin Hood. The tight green tunic clung to him neatly, exposing finely chiseled arms and a chest that lightly pressed against the fabric. His green tights clung to him in all the right places...

And the _hat. _Well let's just say the orange feather brought the whole ensemble together. He was an urban Robin Hood—and he liked it.

But his ensemble was yet to be complete. Carefully, he pulled a bottle of Abercrombie perfume he had purchased from the duty-free section of the airport, and _covered _himself in it. It was a muggle strategy he had observed from behind a plastic plant inside a fashion store titled 'Hollister'. The workers drenched the merchandise in perfume. You could smell it twenty feet away from the store itself.

Smelling and looking good, Voldemort exited the bathroom, his suitcase silently rolling behind him.

The onslaught that was the aftermath of walking out into the open was one thing he was not prepared for.

"HOLY CRAP!! GET HIM!!"

It took two and a half seconds for three security guards to floor him, and another five for them to comprehend the situation, stand back up again, and start laughing.

Voldemort glared at them as they laughed, feeling slightly confused, dejected...and winded.

"What the hell was that for?" he demanded frustratedly. He grabbed his suitcase, flustered, and began to stand back up on his feet again.

The carefree laughter that had previously kept the three guards preoccupied, immediately dissipated. They yanked him to his feet and began to lead him through a closed door and down a hallway.

Voldemort kept his thoughts to himself, knowing that asking the questions that ran through his head right now would most likely get him arrested, all circumstances considered.

"You're under arrest," stated one of the security guards briskly when they arrived in a secluded room furnished by nothing but a desk, four convenient chairs, and a broken lamp. They sat him down in one of the chairs and immediately handcuffed him tightly.

"For what?" he demanded, more confused than frustrated. He had no idea Robin Hood was so disliked in the states. And here he was convinced that the witty character had stolen the hearts of American millions through his personal interpretation of the American Dream...

plus he was sexy.

Perhaps it was the horribly rewritten Disney movie that had America shuddering. He could not blame them. Robin Hood? A fox? Robin Hood was witty, he had to agree, but the theif certainly was not furry.

"Costumes in the New York International Airport are against the rules." The guard who spoke was tall, and his wrists...they were beautiful.

Voldemort sniffed. Well he was certainly in character...

"I don't understand..."

"You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can or will be held against you in trial."

Fucking fifth amendment, thought Voldemort bitterly. His stomach growled.

"Listen," said Voldemort shaking his head. "All that is very well. I really need to get going..." Where the hell was his wand? He felt it in his front pocket. One blast and all three of them would be toast—either literally or figuratively. If only it weren't for those blasted handcuffs. And anyways... exposing himself as a wizard in front of muggles was a deathwish.

He practically laughed. Well damn...I'm freakin Lord every-other-day Voldemort. Screw rules. This just got personal.

Reining in all his focus, he began to clench his fists and close his eyes tightly shut. Flexing every muscle in his arms, he channeled his strength into breaking the metal links that were his one and only restraint.

The three guards sat down in front of him. One took out a box of popcorn.

Many amused laughs, one box of popcorn, and ten minutes later, Voldemort still sat on the chair, just as handcuffed as before.

"Crap," he muttered to himself before looking at the guards. "Fine. Just take me to your jail...or whatever."

OOO

The New York county jail gave Voldemort the impression that he had just entered a metallic wonderland. With cable television and an air-hockey machine.

He sat in his secluded cell now, soaking in its fashionable interior. It gave jail-life a modern touch with its chrome-themed toilet and matching sink with mirror. The room was accented with its stone and stained ground that greatly added the dungeon and doom affect to the concrete stained walls. These walls were delicately decorated with secret messages written by past jail-mates. The modern bed, which looked more like a shelf than a sleeping arrangement, gave the room a modern look, adding to the cell's 'I'm in jail and I like it' theme.

Playing with a broken thread on the mattress, he turned towards the lone security guard who was inconspicuously staring at him—either that or he was staring at his Robin Hood costume, which you could slightly see under his temporary neon-orange attire.

"I want my phone call."

The guard looked at him in the eye and perked up a little, standing up straighter. "Excuse me?"

"My phone call," he repeated, looking at the guard and then down at the broken thread. "I want my phone call."

"Oh ummm..." The guard looked around, as if the phone would suddenly appear in front of him. "Hang on a sec."

Voldemort thrummed his nails on his knee as the guard dashed off. Moments later, he returned, a bright red phone in his hand.

"Here," said the guard hesitantly, holding out the receiver through the bars. Voldemort stood up and grabbed it carefully. The guard held the bottom half of the phone closer to the bars, ushering for him to go ahead and dial.

He blinked.

Well _shit_, he thought blankly, staring at the twelve buttons in front of him. What the hell was he doing?

_I don't even know any numbers_, he thought with a sigh as he gave the receiver back to the confused guard. "Never mind," he muttered quietly before returning back to the lumpy mattress across the cell.

Well he couldn't just stay in jail for the rest of the summer. For one, as much as lumpy mattresses and half-broken air hockey machines seemed tempting, staying in jail hardly seemed an appropriate vacation. For another, he could not play Robin Hood while stuck inside a cell.

_This is just dumb, _he thought mutely. _I have to get out of here. _

"_Avada Kedavra."_

With the security guard obliterated along with what used to be the thick iron confines of his cell, Voldemort came to wonder just how his wand had ended up in his back pocket.

Realizing that not only did this delay his previously sporadic and creative escape plan but also brought up a logical dilemma for the not so logical author, Voldemort hopped off his bed and ran out of the cell towards the exit. To say the least, he had no idea where he was going, and as he ventured down increasingly more hallways, he began to lose hope of finding an exit at all.

And then it shone above him, a heavenly neon sign, more welcoming than the thought of killing Harry Potter itself.

The Exit Sign. And underneath it, a flashing arrow pointing towards the right. He was free.

Quickly, Voldemort slunk around the corner and towards the door to freedom, his orange jumpsuit precariously abandoned behind him.

OOO

Walking around New York opened Voldemort's eyes to many culturally unique aspects of America. For instance, there was Time Square, with its monstrous Toy's R Us, and "TRL specials". Then there was all this shopping. Shopping shopping shopping. Everyone was shopping. Macy's, Banana Republic, Victoria's Secret...

It was a nice place—most of it. There were parks, monuments, massive skyscrapers that made his neck sore whenever he tried to find the tops of them. And everyone was very accepting of his Robin Hood ways as well. Unlike at the airport, no one bothered even looking at him. It made him half-way more dejected than he had felt previously.

And then another problem occurred to him.

_How was he to steal from the rich and give to the urban shrubberies when he had no rich people to steal from? No money to give away?_

He blinked. Damnit.

Clenching his jaw, he looked around, panicked. He didn't know anyone here. He was just a secluded Robin Hood—no home, no money, nothing to live off of but his own flesh...(and his wand but that's disregardable)...

Where was he supposed to find a rich person in New York City?

And then he realized that, though he asked the question to himself internally, it still did not lessen the fact that he had indeed just asked the dumbest question of the day.

New York City was filled with many rich people. So many stars lived here...heck...he wouldn't be surprised if one of the richest people in the world lived here.

His eyes widened suddenly. Of course.

Voldemort threw himself across the street, ignoring the protests and honks that followed because of it. After being hit on the head with a furious watermelon by a street vendor whom he accidentally tackled mercilessly, Voldemort had made it to the other side of the street and was running at a sprint.

After what felt like hours of running (when in reality it was only minutes), Voldemort slowed to a walk and leaned against a brick wall, gasping for breath. He had no idea where he was even going...

"I need a directory," he said allowed, still wheezing as he put his hands on his knees and waited for his breath to return to normal.

"WHAT DID YOU CALL ME?! _SLIPPERY?!" _The booming voice came from his right, and Voldemort looked up startled to see a large man hulking over him, looking more intimidatingly sexy than anyone had a right to.

Voldemort's brows furrowed. "I'm...sorry?"

"That's right you're sorry. You'll be sorry once I shove my foot so hard up your as—."

"I don't even know what you're talking about!"

"You called me _slippery!_"

"Well _shit! _I totally didn't! I _said _'I need a _directory_'."

The man blinked. "Y-you did?"

"_Yes._"

"Oh..."

"_Avada Kedavra._"

The man slumped against the wall and then fell to the ground, lifeless.

Voldemort clenched his jaw, looking at the body. Two people in one day. Not necessarily expected, but it's been worse. Stepping over the body in a nonchalant way that only dark lords could muster, Voldemort continued walking down the street, searching for some form of directory.

It was a shame though. He was _incredibly _sexy.

Another two blocks awarded him with a conveniently detailed discarded map of New York City, he picked it up desperately, and unfolded it.

My God. New York City is the most confusing thing...

Turning it over, he looked at the index now, scanning his finger down the list, looking for his desired desination.

Ah. Found it.

It was close, only a block away. And he wouldn't have been surprised if he had been circling it this whole time. It took the form of a massive skyscraper, towering above him with sleek, sophisticated one-way windows, and a revolving door that said 'steal from me because I'm really rich'.

Voldemort sniffed and walked towards the entrance, eyeing the revolving door with a hint of hesitance. He'd never liked revolving doors. It was a long story...and the author was running out of time, so getting into it now seemed pointless.

Voldemort entered and walked approximately two and a half feet.

"HOLY CRAP!! GET HIM!!"

Once again, he was floored. This time by five security guards. Well...four. The fifth one got distracted by the ice-cream man parked out of the street and exited the building before he made any initial impact.

"Owww."

"Save it, Robin Hood," voiced one of the guards as they brought him back to his feet. "We're gonna have to ask you to leave."

"Why?"

"Because you're dressed like a freakin' lunatic," said another guard icily. "Places like these do have dress codes you know."

Looking around now, Voldemort couldn't help but deny it. Everyone was looking smashing.

He sighed and nodded. "I see," he muttered, defeated. "I guess I'll just be on my way then..."

"That's right you'll be on your way. Get out of here."

Voldemort gave the lobby a lingering look before exiting, his shoulders slumped.

So much for a victorious summer vacation.

And then he saw it, staring at him innocently, practically waiting for him to pick it up. Twenty dollars. It was just laying on the street, abandoned by its previous owner and looking for another. His eyes widened at the sight of it as hope rippled through his body. Quickly, he walked towards it and picked it up, staring at it and then grasping it tightly, making sure it didn't fly away with the non-existent New York wind.

He hopped into a planter that shouldered the building's flashy entrance. Squeezing himself into the thick shrubbery, he looked around cautiously before tucking the twenty into the ground and patting it affectionately.

There.

OOO

When Voldemort returned home to his mediocre apartment, he sighed contently and leaned against the closed door behind him. It was a wonderful vacation, full of adventure, spunk, and green tights.

Sherry barked at him.

He glowered at her. "Shut up, Sherry."

* * *

ah. finished. lmfao.

So ummm...that didn't necessarily go as planned. I guess that's what happens when you give me one hour, one prompt, no plotline, and a chocolate bar.

Peace!

Keep on Moosin', Fanfiction.


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